An Enemy of the people (original Norwegian title: En folkefiende) is an 1882 play by Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen. Ibsen wrote it in response to the public outcry against his play Ghosts, which at that time was considered scandalous. Ghosts had challenged the hypocrisy of Victorian morality and was deemed indecent for its veiled references to syphilis.

An Enemy of the People addresses the irrational tendencies of the masses, and the hypocritical and corrupt nature of the political system that they support. It is the story of one brave man's struggle to do the right thing and speak the truth in the face of extreme social intolerance.

The play's protagonist, Dr Stockmann, represents the playwright's own voice. Upon completion of the play, Ibsen wrote to his publisher in Copenhagen : "I am still uncertain as to whether I should call it a comedy or a straight drama. It may [have] many traits of comedy, but it also is based on a serious idea."

Luddism was a serious idea, too. So was commonism. So was Christism.

Socialism ism disease of the massive mandible of the tarantula called man, who eats religion and philosophy and shits out his own best ideas.

I loves me some socialites. Some folks calls 'em pigs and fatshits. I just loves me them socialites.

Trashman, you're my ideal.

Credit: GI

And ya gotta love that Flamous Roy fella.

I enjoyed the Famous Flames this morning so much, I'm gonna listen to it again right now.

I went out to see the Quiet Man on a big screen, something I'd never done. I was totally unprepared for the cinematography and such an intense experience. I was alone, studied the thing intently and came away thinking I had kind of experienced the same thing reading Patrick Oliver's essay on Kor and Pratt.

The Ford film and that essay can each be described as exquisite, something worth searching out. Speaking of which, next Friday is the Searchers or Rio Bravo, one, and the other the following Friday.

I have never seen the Searchers, though it is a fine, fine novel novel. I have never seen the Famous Flames, though their namesake car club from Merced and Yosemite is full of fine upstanding men and mamas.

Dear Sirs:
Your article ARE THE CANADIANS STILL OUR FRIENDS? [by Harold H. Martin, June 17 {1960}] was one of the fairest and most reasonable commentaries on this ticklish subject I have read in any magazine, Canadian or American.
I think most Canadians know that we are suffering from national growing pains. but most of us feel that we have a right to have these pains and to groan about them.--BM Erb, Ottawa, Ontario

Dear Sirs:
I do not like Americans, and many of my friends hold the same opinion. Imagine, some Americans come to Ontario in July with skis on their cars, asking where the snow is.--Ruth Anne Ashman, Tillsonburg, Ontario

Dear Sirs:
Everywhere Americans go they expect to be welcomed with open arms and allowed to take over the running of whatever situation they push their way into. Although you are the Great American People, this gives you no rights to infringe on the sovereignty of any nation, however small.--Maurice G. Simmons, Montreal, Quebec

Dear Sirs:
Any Canadian who thinks that the majority of his fellows is anti-American could likely get himself into a fine brawl if he tried to swing the rest of us to his way of thinking. Most of the noise comes from vociferous knotheads by whom some of our politicians are unduly influenced.
--R.H. Fallin, Winnipeg, Manitoba

Dear Sirs:
Your article took four and a half pages to wonder if Canadians are still your friends and then gave the answer in the last two paragraphs. Of course we are still you friends and will continue to be....An article such as this one will do nothing toward either strengthening the bonds of our friendship or clearing up the problems that exist between us.--Yvonne Baines, Toronto, Ontario

Dear Sirs:
One very important but unmentioned cause of the present anti-American feelings here may be the rape of our natural resoursed through a complete disregard of game laws by US sportsmen. The maind requirements of these so-called sportsmen seem to be that they must catch and shoot anything and everything, get drunker than anyone and be louder than everybody in Canada. These are our "friends"?--Felix Leveque, Winnipeg, Manitoba

"vociferous knotheads"

Dear Sirs:
As Britain before 1776 controlled the Fifteen Colonies culturally, so does the US control Canada....The Kennedy Doctrine was the last straw for most of us Canadians, who wish others to respect our rights as we respect theirs. And deliver us from both the US and Communist imperialists!--Hunter Brumell, Montreal, Quebec

It is a little known fact that there was a time in the history of the United States when it was seriously debated whether our official language should be German rather than English. At least I think it’s a fact. I’ve never tried to really find a confirmable source but have read on a number of occasions that this was indeed the case.

Supposedly when our forefathers in the Pennsylvania Legislature were putting a government together, the question of what our country’s official language should be was asked. This led to a surprisingly long squabble. Eventually it came down to a choice of German or English. The Legislature put it to a vote and German lost out by only one vote! The founding fathers, being political animals, then decided that, since the vote was so close, it would be best for all concerned to drop the issue and not get everyone upset because most of the colonists had been accepting English pretty much as the language of choice.

As a result, there has never been an “official” language of the United States although English, with its diversity of sources and rich vocabulary has become its de facto language. Today more people around the world speak English than any other language. Recently a similar debate took place in the European Commission and they too have announced the decision that English be the official language of the European Union rather than German. I don’t know how true it is but I’ve read some stuff on the internet that led me to understand that the negotiations leading to this decision was predicated on Her Majesty’s Government conceding that English spelling had some room for improvement and the Union accepted a five year plan which would phase in a new language to be known as Euro-English. An unidentified source explained that this would occur as follows:

In the first year, “s” will replace the soft “c”. Sertainly this will make the sivil servants jump with joy. The hard “c” will be dropped in favor of the “k”. This should klear up konfusion and keyboards kan now have one less letter.

There is sure to be growing publik enthusiasm for the new language in the sekond year when the troublesome “ph” will be replaced with the “f”. This will make words like “fotograf” 20% shorter.

In the third year, publik akseptanse of the new spelling kan be expekted to reach the stage where more komplikated changes are possible. The removal of double leters will take place. These unesesary devises have always ben a deterent to akurat speling. Also, al wil agre that the horible mes of the silent “e” in the languag is disgrasful and it should go away.

By the fourth year, people wil be reseptiv to steps such as replasing “th” with “z” and “w” with “v” therby removing thre mor leters from the keyboard.

During ze fifz year ze unesesary “o” kan be dropd from vords kontaining “ou” and similar changes vud of kurs be aplid to ozer kombinations of leters. After ze fifz yer ve vil hav a rali sensibl ritn styl. Zer vil be no more trubl or difikultis and evrivun vil vind it eze tu undrstand ech ozer.

Zen ze drem vil finali kum tru!

In case you have some doubts about German almost becoming our national language, I found confirmation of this when I ran across the following little poem that all the young children of the original pilgrims had to learn:

I'm just trying to foster some brotherhood. Hence the international flavor today, beginning with The Quiet Man, as you saw.

One thing that touched me, two, actually, about the film--the singing of "Galway Bay" in Pat Cohan's Bar, and the buildings along the high street in Innisfree. They look the same, structurally and stylewise as the ones in Kinvarra on southern Galway Bay, where my Irish forbears came from. The Bermingham hardware store looks virtually the same today as those buildings would look.

Here's a photo I got from the old Post magazine from 1961 and I think it's either Dolt or Powell at the wheel. I wondered if it were Layton Kor, but he's not stooped over.

And since I just finished RR's biography, in which he tells of going cross country on a bus to a BSA jamboree in the fifties, here's the cover commemorating the one in 1962 at Philmont Ranch. Which is in Colorado, I think.

New Mexico, Dork!

Credit: mouse from merced

And one for the road. The Rev's on his way over fo to go to In n' Out.

A 1965 Goat. Climb any mountain highway in a hurry--it's a wide-track Pontiac.

Credit: mouse from merced

I am out this morning shooting some pics. I see this GTO on Main St. across from Trevino's Mexican Restaurant. I cross Main and shoot the car. I turn around and here is this gent, Michel-Jon, talking to the head of the Ruffalo family on his cell. We are having lunch with the little beauty Lizzie and her entourage before you can say hey there.

One desired result of good wave riding is to get into the tube. How do you know you've finally arrived? Naturlich, you test.

Back around the time this device came into widespread use, there was a strike one summer by (I believe) the teamsters who delivered most of the soft drinks. I remember all the Coca Cola and big name brands disappearing off the shelves until the only stuff available was that Shasta shown above. Scabs? Only Pete knows for sure.

Gonna have to do some research, so this will have to stand in for now, but this is something like the first TV I remember my family having. I bring this up since this evening I observed five adults gathered around watching a iPhone screen. Devolution or just Devo?

Interesting that when you go looking for images of old TV sets, this guy pops up. Possibly even more interesting he pops up even when pop ups are blocked.

This is one example (of perhaps billions) of not achieving tubular status. Lou on the other hand probably could have gone toes over while getting tubed if it hadn't been for that Bud fellow.

Here is Skip Johnson's parents' radio, purchased in about 1940 from McMurray's here in Merced.

I'm told it's never moved from this spot, and Skip showed the Rev and I the special electrical outlets (2) in the wall behind. One's power in and one's power out to a double array of incremental antenna loops for short wave reception, the which is mounted in the attic just above the radio.

No thalidomide jokes, please.

And yes, the furniture seems to need dusting.

Here it is. It is like this. This is the way it is. It all began when Norton Johnson's first wife, the flapper in the photo on the cables to Half Dome, died and he re-married, only to find they could not have a family. Skip became the luckiest kid for miles, he says, to be adopted by the Johnsons. Norton is the same age as my own grandfather, Leonard Larson, b. 1899. All the stuff Skip inherited from his folks is a full generation older than the things that I've been left by mine.

Skip's mom was a hoarder. Skip's been able to dig through most of the junk and I'm eagerly waiting like a dog for scraps. I got Skip a hamburger when the Rev and I went to In 'n Out to be polite. Like I took him out for dinner last week to the 510.b (it's my new pet name for the 510 Bistro--cool, huh?), to show him appreciation in a tangible way for letting me voyeur all over his antique goodies.

So the Rev and I and Skip sat down in Skip's now-cleared back yard and he regaled us with stories and he even brought out a generous amount of conversational lubricant. the Rev doesn't lie, and he doesn't smoke, either, but we didn't care. We sat and smoked and lied. We should've had a campfire. Jeff, the Rev; myself: and Skip, Mark's his given name, little-orphan-boy-only-child, relatives who told him that he was adopted by the whole Johnson clan, not just that couple living in Merced;. It's what you want to hear, huh?

Jeff came up with a story about him and Dick Ellsworth of flame-bearded fame.

Credit: throwpie

They were climbing up to the saddle between Ritter and Banner and in the gully was a lot of snow. A date climb was going badly, he berating she for her inablility and fear, though she had never climbed before (sheesh, they can get more stupid than this guy but you hate to hear about it) this, and the boys felt they had to help out, so they did, by belaying each clown DOWN OFFA MY CLOUD, GODDAMIT!

So they completed their own climb, I think. As fate would have it, though, our Flamish climbing partners are in the Village Store a bit later, though Jeff didn't say when, and the rescued pair are there thanking them all over the place, offering to buy food, give sexual favors, etc. Being humble, and committed to the truth, the Rev insists they forget it and give it to the deserving poor. They are noble dirt
baggers and wandervogel out goin', "Hope we never run into them again!"

As expected, the Rev was in the Tetons later that year. This was likely, he said '73 or '74. She was there. He was long gone. This is all I'm sayin' cuz I don't remember the rest of the story.

"He that toucheth the AM Radio dial can kiss his peace of mind goodbye.
This is the signal that the Lord hath provided.
Blessed be the 1480 setting on your radio dial.
This and this only shall you not do:
Thou shalt not change the setting on the dial from KYOS to any other, for it is enough that farm reports, solid conservative programming, and a sincerely American standard of listening is provided free of charge.
Blessed be Daddy Cool and Paine, Webber, Jackson, and Curtis, who've brought your stock report up to date.
Honor thy Cecil's Golden Chicken and your appetite's friend, and chill with Del Shannon and The Byrds.
Thy own days shall be spent in Paradise with deep purple glows and purple haze and the Prince of Bel Air re-runs on ur TV affiliate.
This is the sound that the Lord hath made; let us rejoice and be real happy but NEVER turn that dial!
Because, for the love of God, we could end up living in a van down by Bear Creek--which is a lot better than living in a van down by Choss Creek, ID, BTW."

When a brother dies, they all get together in a show of grief. Quite a panoply if it's done correctly.

"Warning: High saline content. Do not drink."--ECV

Credit: mouse from merced

A huge cry-fest with liquor, I imagine, but this is hearsay, of course. I was never asked to join, nor would I, any more than I would join any club but this one. It's a full time gig being a Flame, at least for me. And I've never been to a Clamper rite.

And please, don't be blowin' any horns on my account when I'm ashes. Save your breath.

Credit: mouse from merced

Plant me a cork tree as a memorial some where. Put me in the sand at the base of Mt. Clark. But don't make any noise. I'll have gone to my rest, though, so...

I drank lots of Mateus rose at Degnan's, Bob. STFU about that and play!

RIP for Gypsy's buddy.

This is who Dave Bromberg wanted to REALLY be. It's understandable.

He was so good he made me split my infinitive!

The last song, See You In My Dreams, that's for the obvious cats and birds in the circle who will be able to see their puddy-tats, their loved ones, and their mommies only in their dreams because they're RIP, mostly.

But there are a bunch of other good, tasty things to listen to, as usual.

I think we'd all like a report on ARIEL'S LEGS and his healing. What's up?

I had an unplanned Flames-related gathering yesterday. I ate at the 510 last night and when I was there ran into a trio from the past. The first one I recognized as Paul Ward, who took Coz's old Chevy off my hands. He went to a table where his wife Pat sat with an elderly lady (as in a generation older than I am old), who was Paul's ma, Isabelle Coates, wife of the late former owner of the Record Rendevous, an intimate of such as the Flaming Groovies and the Brogues.

How's this relate to the Flames, you ask? It is Isabelle Coates, the junior version known as Belle, who was Bullfrog's GF and who gave him his Martin guitar. Belle is Paul's half-sister sister. She is living elsewhere, Bullfrog's somewhere in The City.

You guys recall our trip to the Bugaboos, the Rev, BF, and myself? It's related earlier in the thread.

Pat Ward used to be married to a climber named Jim Dahlstrom. They opened a climbing/packing/biking concern on Main St. in the seventies. Mark Tuttle became involved in this retail shop sometime after the Dahlstroms' divorce. (My understanding.) He had been guiding for YMS and had also been a bicycle racer as a junior rider, I guess.

Mark is busy as heck. He just finished up a haul bag for Dave Yerian. Hope that worked out well, Dave.

There seems to be some confusion about the model number, but thankfully we can turn to Great Britain for the answer. I would not recommend the purchase of this one since they were asking US $5.99 for the item and US $45.00 for the postage. No wonder the colonies revolted.